


The Highway Of Regret

by Shut_Up_Marius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Combeferre is dead, M/M, Modern AU, Starts fluffy but suddenly it's NOT, all the sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shut_Up_Marius/pseuds/Shut_Up_Marius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis de l'ABC couldn't last forever. Life happened and everyone had to go on. Some got luckier than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highway Of Regret

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic, and actually ALL of it, came to me in a nightmare I had one night. Waking up was heartbreaking and I was mad at my brain for sending me that.
> 
> I own none of these wonderful characters.
> 
> The title is from To Make You Feel My Love, by Billy Joel.

"You look absolutely gorgeous," Enjolras smiled as Grantaire stepped out of the bathroom.

"You look pretty dashing yourself," Grantaire grinned back. "Is that Armani?" he asked as he motioned to the dapper grey suit his husband had on.

"You know it is because it's the only proper suit I own, stop mocking me. It's not my fault my job-"

"Sometimes requires having to dress up like you're from a GQ cover, I get it, you've only told me a million times."

"Only because you keep insisting on pointing out-"

"Oh my God, Enjolras, I'm sorry I asked," Grantaire started laughing. "I'm honoured you chose to wear your GQ suit for me. Now come here and give me a kiss."

Enjolras took a deep breath, debated the merits of denying Grantaire's request but then crossed the living-room to his infuriating husband of eight years and kissed him soundly on the lips.

Eight years of happiness and arguments and all the things that life encompassed. They'd been dating two years before the wedding and the engagement had come as no surprise, especially not to their merry band of friends. Enjolras could still remember the evening they'd made the big announcement. He remembered the claps on the back, the shouts for celebratory drinks, the warm hugs, and even the tears in some of his friends' eyes. He remembered the feeling of elation, of "yes, this is right" almost like an out-of-body experience. These were some fond memories to fall back on when nostalgia tried to bring him down.

He kept on thinking about his friends as he and Grantaire locked up their apartment, rode the elevator down to the lobby and climbed into a taxi towards Manhattan. Les Amis de l'ABC only lived in their shared memory, now; they were all scattered across the globe. Some were still in Europe, some had longed for wild and foreign landscapes, some... They kept in touch. He couldn't say they were all as close as they once had been, but some friendships lasted forever, as naïve as it sounded.

They'd all encouraged him when he'd decided to move to New York City to apply for jobs at the United Nations Headquarters. Grantaire had known about his plans all along and had always assured him that, as a "professional brush-waving person", he could pretty much paint anywhere they sold canvas and paints.

He'd done that and so much more, Enjolras thought as they sped towards the Upper West Side. The Villenstrass Gallery was one of the most influencial places in New York City. If there was one thing Enjolras wished for Grantaire, it was for him to keep on being recognised by his peers.

He squeezed the artist's hand. Grantaire looked over at him and squeezed back with a blinding smile.

"Are you nervous, Aire?"

"I'm alright, I think," Grantaire chuckled, a twinkle in his brown eyes. "It's not like I've never done it before, right? And I'm mostly just excited for people to see what I came up with this time. I really think these are some of the best paintings I've ever done, and besides, tonight we only get the friendly crowd. The gallery only invited people who have previously bought my stuff or people who have expressed interest in my work, so I'm good. I'm basically a rock star."

"I can't wait to get you out of this suit," Enjolras blurted out after a couple of seconds.

"What?" Grantaire laughed again.

"I'm sorry, but you're amazing, I love you, and you look way too handsome for someone who's simply wearing a black suit over a white tshirt, so it was the first thing that came to my mind."

"Don't forget the fetching red handkerchief, please. It's silk, _mon ange_." At this, he leaned into Enjolras and whispered in his ear. "It's really too bad it's not big enough to tie your hands with, I'm sure you would have loved the feeling of it on your wrists."

Enjolras playfully shoved him away and Grantaire laughed again, but he made a mental note to remember to grab said handkerchief and try it anyway.

As soon as they set foot in the gallery, Grantaire was swept up in a whilrwind of greetings and handshakes. Enjolras dutifully stayed behind but always within reach, should Grantaire's nerves end up getting the best of him. Even in his more confident moments, sometimes he still got a little overwhelmed by the attention he received. Thankfully, it actually did look like a very good night for his husband.

In the end, Grantaire's elation became contagious and, before he knew it, Enjolras was riding the same high. Everything was perfect, the electricity in the air was galvanising, his paintings really were some of the best he'd ever produced and he loved his husband. So fucking much. Enjolras gradually left Grantaire's side to go mingle with a few people he recognised from previous events and share everyone's enthusiasm at the artist's work.

As the evening progressed, they passed by each other a few times, brushing hands and silently communicating through the brief touch. _"Are you still alright?" "Marvellous." "Good."_  

After a while, Enjolras ran out of people to talk to and just watched Grantaire from across the room. He was talking to a balding man with round glasses and a bright pink bowtie, brandishing his champagne flute towards his own painting as he probably rambled on about its more technical aspects. Just as Grantaire spilled a few drops of his drink in his excitement, Enjolras' phone vibrated in his pants' pocket.

When it turned out that the caller ID said 'Courfeyrac', Enjolras almost dropped his phone in his haste to pick up. Courfeyrac was the one friend he and Grantaire were still in regular contact with. They saw each other at least twice a year since he lived in Philadelphia. Even though the city of brotherly love wasn't that far, none of them had enough free time to make the two-hour drive more often. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac had been invited to tonight's exhibition and Ejolras knew for a fact that if his friend hadn't had an important case to work on, he would have been here to witness Grantaire's latest triumph, so Enjolras was overjoyed to hear from his friend. Before Courfeyrac could get a word in edgewise, he started firing words at him.

"Courf! You should be here! You should see Grantaire! Tonight is such a success, everyone's fawning over his work. It's a bit overwhelm-"

"Enjolras."

The tone alone was enough to stop Enjolras in his tracks. He'd been retreating to a more secluded corner of the gallery so he would be able to hear his friend properly, but he literally nearly tripped as his spine went rigid. It was like someone had just dumped icy water on his body.

He knew what this was about right away. Courfeyrac only ever used that broken tone for one reason. For one person. Enjolras forced his feet to carry him out of the room. He spared a last glance for Grantaire who, unaware of his husband's sadness, looked to be apologising for the spilt liquor. He wouldn't be missed for a while.

"I opened his diary. I know I shouldn't have but- I miss him and..."

Enjolras couldn't speak; the sound of Courfeyrac's full-on sobs on the other end was painful. It made Enjolras want to throw the phone away and pretend this wasn't happening, that nothing had ever happened and his other best friend hadn't been dead for six years. That he was still alive, and laughing, and cleaning his glasses with his ridiculous checkered handkerchief when he did his posh professor imitation.

"What was in there? Was it... bad things?" Enjolras croaked out, half choking on his words as he slid down a wall to sit down. He didn't want to know. He asked anyway. For Courfeyrac.

"He loved me so much," Courfeyrac cried. "I was so annoying sometimes but he loved me anyway. His handwriting is so perfect, I'd almost forgotten how perfect everything he did was."

Through the obvious anguish, Enjolras could hear the love Courfeyrac still felt for Combeferre. It ripped him apart.

The conversation went on for some time; it steered towards happier memories and Enjolras grew less tense as Courfeyrac's crying subsided, even though he could hear his voice break on some words.

"And do you remember that one time- Oh, no! I think that was the time Ferre made you stay in Paris because you had to study for that one exam, and we'd gone to Joly's family's farm."

"I believe Marius stayed with me. Are you going to tell me the goose story?"

"Oh, Courf!" Enjolras burst into laughter. "It was such a sight. I mean, there you had Bossuet being chased by that terrifying beast from hell, I swear that goose was the size of a German shepherd, and he was yelling his head off, like 'help me, help me, you bastards!' but everyone was just in stitches, there was no way any of us could run."

"But then, Combeferre had to go and play knight-in-shining-armour." Enjolras fought hard to ignore the grief in his friend's voice.

"He did, but he was still wiping tears of laughter from his cheeks when he set off after the goose. As soon as it saw him, though, it turned on him and started chasing him instead. He honest-to-God yelped and started running in the other direction while Bossuet escaped."

"He had the nastiest bites on his calves for at least a week and a half after that."

"Yes! Because he was like, 'I don't want to kick it! I don't want to kick it!' so in the end he firmly nudged it aside while we all ran inside. Joly was so, so embarrassed."

The discussion lasted so long that Grantaire interrupted it when he came to get Enjolras because they would be closing the gallery soon. The artist looked a lot more dishevelled than he had mere hours before but then again, Enjolras mused, he must have looked way worse himself. He gave Grantaire a faint and shaky smile as he walked up to him. He didn't ask questions, he only sat down beside him on the floor.

Courfeyrac must have heard a change in Enjolras' voice, or maybe he heard Grantaire despite the discretion with which he'd approached, but he hung up quickly after that with a promise to visit soon. Enjolras hoped it was a promise he would keep.

As for him, he made a promise to himself: he would go and stay with Courfeyrac for a weekend sometime in the next two months. He would have to arrange something; if Courfeyrac's call had reminded him of anything tonight, it was that he knew people who mattered. People whom he loved and whom deserved to see how much they meant to him sooner rather than later, because there might not be a later to speak of.

"How did it go?" Enjolras asked after a couple of minutes of silence.

"It was great," Grantaire answered succintly. "How's Courf?"

"Not great... Not great at all... I love you, and I need to go home and write a bunch of emails."

"Let's go, then."

When Enjolras finally slipped into bed next to Grantaire that night, his eyes weren't red only because of the late-night computer time.

**Author's Note:**

> In my dream/nightmare, the narrative cut to Courfeyrac listening to To Make You Feel My Love and crying alone in his apartment, if you needed anymore cheerful thoughts. You're welcome.
> 
> Sorry if you noticed any abuse of the English language; I happen to be from Victor Hugo's motherland.


End file.
